


Family

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These aren’t his people, and they’re never gonna be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "caught". Takes places Pre Season One with an Episode 305 coda.
> 
> * * *

“You sure about this, little brother?” Merle asks.

_Nope_ , Daryl thinks. The bunch they found camping out at the old quarry looks about as useful as tits on a bull, and the cop is giving already givin’ them the side-eye, keepin’ his hand close by the butt of his gun as he watches them pitch their tent. They have kids, too, runnin’ around and laughin’ like they were on a Sunday school picnic; an old dude in a floppy hat that looks to be kin to methuselah and is likely to keel over any minute. Not a one of ‘em looks like they have the first clue how to hunt or fish or do a single goddamn thing that’ll keep them all alive at the end of the world.

That ain’t why he’s tempted to just start packin’ up and movin’ on, though. 

Doesn’t take more’n six brain cells to figure out these are decent folks. He’s willin’ to bet his last nickel that not a one of ‘em ever seen the inside of a prison cell, or done more than toked a little weed of a Saturday night. Bet none of ‘em ended up bloodied and bruised in the parking lot of some low-rent honkytonk after one too many, either.

Ain’t gonna take long ‘fore they figure out the Dixon boys just don’t belong.

But he’s tired of sleeping with one eye open. Tired of worrying that Merle’ll get bored on watch and dig into his stash, nod off just when one of them geeks comes stealin’ up to camp. 

So he shrugs, drags the battered cooler from the back of the pickup. “Safety in numbers. Ain’t that what you said?”

He doesn’t wait to listen to Merle’s response, just tosses the cooler beside the tent and bends to pick up his bow. Best to range out a little, find some rabbit or squirrel to add to the supper pot. Sooner he can show these folks that he got a skill worth havin’, the longer they might let him and Merle stick around. Best he can hope for is a couple months, long enough for this disease or whatever the fuck it is to run its course. 

He squints, watches as an older woman tucks a kid – not her own, that’s for damn sure – under her arm, ruffles the boy’s hair and laughs at somethin’ the boy says. A few yards away, some scrawny Asian kid’s bent over a map, studying a route with the blonde that Merle’s had his eye on ever since they rolled in. Everywhere his gaze travels across the camp he sees more of the same -- people that sure as shit ain’t family acting as if they are, workin’ side by side, helping each other.

Daryl straightens, slings his crossbow over his shoulder. Maybe ‘fore he heads out he should talk to the old man, see if he knows of any deer trails in the area. Venison’d sure as fuck trump squirrel for dinner. Heard the kid talkin’ about his supply runs, too, and he’s got some ideas about that, knows a few places they might be able to raid. He scrubs a hand over the stubble on his chin, and it’s only when the older woman smiles tentatively at him that he realizes he’s been standin’ there like a damn fool, starin’ at the bunch of them like they’re candy in a shop window.

Behind him, he hears Merle pop the tab on one of the last Buds, looks over his shoulder to see his brother loungin’ in the back of the pickup, one foot swingin’ lazily. He opens his mouth – to tell Merle to get his lazy ass to gathering some firewood – and closes it again. Turns back in time to see the older woman frown and turn away, put her arm protectively around the boy, lead him away from their part of the camp. 

He knows he’s not gonna talk to the old man, not gonna tell the kid about the Shaughnessy warehouse on the south side. 

These aren’t his people, and they’re never gonna be.

* * *

“You like that, sweetheart?”

The baby – not Sophia, never Sophia – gurgles contentedly as she eagerly sucks down the formula. Daryl rocks her gently, shifts from side to side. Studies every inch of her, breathes in the sweet-smelling scent of her. Lifts his gaze to meet the eyes of his family, hopeful, happy.

He can’t stop smiling.


End file.
